


The Most You Ever Knew

by NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable



Series: Jones Family Collection [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, Headcanon, Young killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:11:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6653740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable/pseuds/NothingImpossibleOnlyImprobable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Speculation on young Killian and Mama Jones moments.  This will ultimately be part of a collection of speculation fics based on (what I think about) his childhood, and the influence of his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most You Ever Knew

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to music (always dangerous) and got hit with this scene, thanks to the Goo Goo Dolls and Acoustic #3.
> 
> Thanks to mossandmushrooms for discussing some of this with me, and for not running away at my terrible idea.

_Your voice is small and fading_  
And you're hiding here unknown  
And your mother loves your father  
Cause she's got nowhere to go  
And she wonders where these dreams go  
Cause the world got in her way  
What's the point in ever trying  
Nothing's changing anyway

* * *

 

“Mama!” he cries, running through the doorway of the little house.  “Mama, look!”  He holds out the small bouquet of wildflowers clenched tightly in his small fist, a proud smile on his face.  “I picked them for you, Mama!”

She smiles gently, her eyes so tired but trying, always trying, for him, for them, and he loves her despite her sadness.  Or maybe because of it, he’s not sure.  Five years is too young to understand the weight of her longing, but just old enough to recognise it.  “Thank you, Killian,” she says, taking the slightly crushed flowers from him, and his smile only grows.

“Liam said you wouldn’t like the flowers from here,” he says, face still alight with pride.  “Is that true?”

He watches her as she fills a small cup with water from the pitcher and settles the flowers inside.  He watches as she considers what to say, his young eyes seeing more than most children his age, and older.  He watches for her answer, but more in how she’ll respond than the words she says.

“I like all the flowers you bring me, Killian,” she finally answers, and he knows it’s the truth, but it’s also not.

“Tell me about flowers from other places,” he asks, settling into a chair at the table.  

He loves her stories, he’s loved all of them, especially the ones of faraway places he’s never going to see.  Only Father goes off on adventures, while he and Liam stay home with Mama.  Father’s stories are always of the sea, but Mama knows other stories, ones of forest nymphs and mystical woodland creatures, of pixie dust and magical islands, children who never grow old or die in their mother’s arms, and giants who live atop tall beanstalks in the clouds growing magic beans to share with all.

She tells him, as she works in the little kitchen, of magical flowers that enchant one’s sleep, sleep that can only be woken by True Love’s kiss (“Will I find True Love, Mama?” he interrupts wide-eyed, and she laughs and nods, “Aye, my love, you will.”).  She talks, as she readies their supper, of plants that grow and twist as if dancing to the music played on a magical flute, blooms opening and closing as the tune changes.

She’s always happiest when she weaves her tales, for him and Liam both, though his older brother’s convinced he’s too old for fairy stories.  Her sadness is barely noticeable as her words wash worlds over him, though he can almost hear the faint note of longing she can’t bring herself to say to anyone.

“Does Father bring you flowers from his travels?” he asks quietly, and her eyes grow sad again, the truth of her tales disappearing into the lies she tells herself and her children.

“Father brings home other treasures from his adventures, my love,” she says as she turns the dough out onto the hard table, puffs of flour dancing in the air as she kneads it with expert fingers.

“Does he know?” he asks, because surely Father must know what Mama loves, it’s as clear as the blue in her eyes.  “Does Father know you want to go with him?”

She stops, and he waits, but she doesn’t answer, not for a long moment.  When she finally raises her eyes, the blue is clouded grey, like the storms rising just on the horizon, and he’s afraid.  Not afraid of her, never afraid of her.  His mama loves him as only a True Love can, of that he is certain.  No, he’s afraid for her, afraid to find out that she’s more alone with the man who’s never there than without him.

“Father doesn’t need me to go with him, Killian,” she finally replies.  “He has his work, and I have mine.”

“We could all go, Mama,” he offers as only a five year old can.  “We can set sail and see the lands you talk about, we can go to Neverland and visit-”

“No, Killian,” she cuts him off with a sharp punch of the bread.  “It’s no kind of life for a family.”

He’s quiet, now.  She sighs and wipes a flour-covered hand across her cheek, then flicks his nose with her fingers, a cloud of white appearing before his eyes, and she smiles at him, the sadness and love fighting to win her expression.

“I just want you to be happy, Mama,” he says, and he watches as love wins, and settles over her features.

“I’m happy with you, Killian.  You and Liam.  You make me happier than all the miles of Enchanted Forest ever could.”  And he believes her, for she’s telling the truth, even if it’s the only truth she has.

“Now go wash your hands and come help me knead this dough,” she says, shooing him off.  He bounds from the chair with a grin.  As he pumps the water over his small fingers, he vows that, one day, when he’s grown, he’ll take her on the greatest adventure of all.

* * *

 

He sees her sitting in the pub, her back to everyone, hunched slightly with a weariness he’s come to recognise.  She’s not there to be found, she’s there to lose herself.  He wonders what’s changed, why she’s ventured so far from home, when she’s only just told him she can’t leave.

He sits beside her, settling easily on the stool, and he slides his drink across the table to her, offering it in his loose fist.  She doesn’t look up, only nods and takes it from him, and he watches as she takes a sip, and then one more.

He knows her eyes, he knew them the moment he saw them a few days before, the clouded blue like the storm on the horizon, the longing and sadness so familiar, so much like home.  She’s trapped, desperate for far more than her life can offer, and he knows he can give that to her, if only she’ll allow him.  Mama never did, she never could, her headstone was placed beside that of the infant sister he never knew on the hill behind their home not a month past his seventh birthday.

But her, he can save her.  He can show her the life Mama had always dreamed of, he can take her to the places that waited just outside the one she thought she couldn’t leave.

“What changed?” he asks quietly, barely heard over the din of the pub.

She doesn’t answer.  She has her secrets, and he has his.  In the end, it’s only the truths they tell each other that matters, not the ones they don’t.

“Are you sure?” he asks, taking a sip of his drink before placing it before her again.

She accepts the cup with another quick drink and nods.  Finally, she turns to face him, her eyes clearer now, hope and the promise of adventure chasing away the darkness of betrayal and desperation.

“Let’s sail away,” Milah says with a small smile.

He takes her hand and he shows her the world.


End file.
